


Don't Know Our Kind of Love

by Hamamelis



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Drummer Johnnie Watson, Dykelock, F/F, Female Sherlock Holmes/Female John Watson, Femslash, Los Angeles, POV Alternating, Past Drug Use, Past Irene Adler/Sherlock Holmes, Past Mary Morstan/John Watson, Rock and Roll, Sherlock is a Girl's Name, Singer Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-13 09:12:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13567416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hamamelis/pseuds/Hamamelis
Summary: The way I feel when you call my name/Makes me go crazy to sane/The way I feel when you're close to me/Finally not drifting out to sea/Nobody lingers like your hands on my heart and/Nobody figures like you figure me out-Sleater-Kinney, "Oh!"





	1. Chapter 1

When she woke up suddenly, alone, heart pounding in a cold sweat and straining against the tangled sheets of the hard twin bed, gasping for air and reaching for someone who wasn’t there, Johnnie Watson wondered why the hell she had ever thought it would be a good idea to move to L.A. She pulled herself up to a sitting position and leaned back against the clammy peeling paint of her bedroom wall. Shit. She wiped a sheen of sweat from her forehead and kicked off the damp sheet; even that light cover was too much for the humid heat which still clung to the city like a membrane at 2am. Even her boxers and t-shirt felt like too much, but she had never really felt comfortable sleeping nude. Johnnie ran her fingers through her short blond hair and sighed. There was no use pretending sleep was coming back any time soon.

She flicked on the light switch, the harsh fluorescent bulb showing no mercy. A roach scuttled for safety behind the lone cupboard. Johnnie glared in its direction. She kept this apartment clean, but the whole building was infested. Really it was overly generous even calling this glorified closet an apartment at all, she thought for the thousandth time. It was a single room with a two burner cookstove and a mini-fridge tucked into one corner, and a shared bathroom down the hall. Fucking awful, really. And she’d be hard pressed to make rent even in this dump next month. Maybe it was time to throw in the towel and head back to Olympia, tail between her legs. Just another wannabe musician chewed up and vomited out by the City of Angels.

She sighed again. It had seemed so magical when they had first arrived, full of hopes and dreams, ready to take on the world. The band still together, playing shows in dives, making jack but having fun, and that feeling that it was all going somewhere. Her and Mary still together too, yeah, fighting some (well, kind of a lot, really) but making up too, making out, making love, and that felt like it was going somewhere too. But it turned out only Mary was going somewhere and that somewhere was far away, back to school in New York, and dating men. Johnnie felt the bitterness and anger rise like bile in her throat. Must be fucking nice to have mommy and daddy bail you out and pay for your MFA when real life got too hard. Mary didn’t want it like Johnnie did, she never had. It was never more than a game for her, none of it, the band, music, Johnnie… all just a fucking game before she settled down into real life. God, Mr. and Mrs. Morstan must be so fucking pleased that their little wayward daughter had given up her little rock’n’roll lesbian rebellion. The thought burned in her chest, and she pushed it away. She put a pan of water on the stove for coffee, glanced at the clock. 4:02 am. Soon it would be dawn. Thank goddess. These nights were fucking endless.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock Holmes awoke with a start from a dream of falling, to the unwelcome warmth of another body sprawled across her bed beside her. Her mouth tasted like ashes and her skin felt sticky and unclean. Her head was throbbing and even the gentle afternoon light that managed to seep in through the dark curtains felt like an assault. She cautiously began to extract her bare legs from the tangled bedsheets, slowly, slowly to avoid waking the bed’s other occupant. Maya. Or Magda? Mara? Whatever. It didn’t matter. Sherlock stifled a groan. Stupid. Stupid to bring her back here, stupid to fall asleep after instead of packing Moira or whatever she was called into a cab and along her merry way. Sherlock hated when they spent the night, hated the subsequent necessity of conversations or, even worse, expectations. She made herself clear, she always made herself clear: this was about sex, pure and simple, that was it and nothing more. And yet still they would expect more, clinging and needy, or wounded and angry. Ugh. It didn’t bear thinking about, just the thought made her chest constrict and her skin crawl.

Sherlock glanced down at the sleeping figure in her bed. The girl was sprawled at an awkward angle, makeup smeared, mouth half open, softly snoring. Sherlock stared and felt nothing. The girl was beautiful, in the way that aspiring models generally are, but there was nothing special about her. Dull, just like everything else. This had, of course, been a mistake. Although, Sherlock supposed, it could have been worse. Sure, she had drank a lot of whiskey, and smoked a lot of Marlboros, but nothing more. The itch had been strong last night, the emptiness, the call of the void. She had sought a lover aggressively to quench it, to feel something, anything. Conscious transference of desire from death or drugs to bodies, to fucking.

It hadn’t worked particularly well. The girl had been the best looking one at the party, she guessed. But the chase had been tame, the pickup too easy, the thrill minimal. And still she brought her home, mimed seduction, still waiting for that hit of dopamine to quell heroin’s whispers. And they fucked, bodies rubbing bodies, fingers and tongues invading orifices, the stimulation of nerves.  Sherlock had fucked the girl clinically, like a highly skilled technician, wringing several orgasms out of her before falling asleep in haze of whiskey fumes and tobacco smoke. Sherlock hadn’t come, had even faked an orgasm, just to make it stop. She had never done that before, and was surprised to find she felt oddly degraded by the act. She raked a hand through her wildly tangled curls, pulled on yesterday’s black jeans and a black sleeveless undershirt.

Sherlock kicked the bedframe, and the girl mumbled unintelligibly but didn’t open her eyes.

She kicked the bed again, harder.

“Hey,” she said softly, but not gently. “Hey, wake up. You gotta go.”  

**Author's Note:**

> Visually, I picture Sherlock in this fic to look and dress like the amazing singer LP. Vocally, I imagine Sherlock to be similar to LP, but with a bit more rock and a bit less pop. I have also borrowed a couple details from LP's life (opera singer mother, for example) but although she definitely provides some inspiration for the character this is NOT intended to be an imagined version of her. I picture Johnnie looking sort of like Kids-era Chloe Sevigny but a bit more butch. Musically, I think of her like the fabulous Janet Weiss, drummer of the band Sleater-Kinney. If I can figure out how to add links I will link to some images to give a sense of it.


End file.
